It’s been clear for years, from their inability to keep their hands off each other’s asses — from their giving each other sharp little congratulatory or consoling pats thereon at the slightest provocation — that Major League Baseball is by far the gayest of our major sports. National Football League players may pride themselves on having the nerve to do battle in pink shoes and wristbands, ostensibly to keep their fans mindful of their affection for the music of The Cure, or something, but it’s the newly crowned American League champion Kansas City Porkeaters who are the real trailblazers, if you ask me. If you haven’t heard, they voted as a team to give each other’s penises affectionate little tugs to express congratulation or condolence in the forthcoming World Series, which experts expect to be watched in well over 700 American households next week, largely because Kansas City’s will be one of the two groups of mostly Dominican, Venezuelan, and Puerto Rican mercenaries competing.
My further understanding about the Porkeaters’ repudiation of traditional modes of congratulation and celebration is that they won’t, at game’s end, all run into the middle of the field and jump up excitedly like third-grade girls who’ve just glimpsed a pony one of them is going to get to take home and name Butterscotch. Instead, they have agreed as a team to celebrate as such manly antecedents as the Vikings and Huns did — by gang-raping weaker members of the losing team. They will, in other words, if I remember the expression correctly from my days as a correctional facility guard, make the San Francisco Giants their bitches.
Over the course of the series, I feel confident that I will become even more homicidally fed up with the commercial in which Handsome Young Man comes home to discover that it’s raining inside his no-doubt-expensive condominium. He puts two and two together and dashes upstairs (we infer) to discover that his pretty, model-ish upstairs neighbor’s kitchen sink faucet has become a geyser, and does what any, uh, guy in his position would do — rips his shirt off and wraps it around the faucet. Modelish Upstairs Neighbor’s husband (or pimp, for all we know, though his appearance suggests that he’s a male model, corporate litigator, or gay porn star) arrives home with his very blue eyes and designer stubble and infers — as who would not — that Handsome Young Man has been fucking MUN like an animal, to employ the zingy simile of Nine Inch Nails.
Cut to HYM, who hasn’t bothered to grab a dry shirt, rushing out of the building with Ol’ Blue-Eyes in heated pursuit. HYM leaps into a particular automobile and drives with great rapidity through a conveniently deserted downtown area, and we viewers infer that ownership of such a vehicle will make us sleek and young and sexy.